Fairy Tale
by glassbaubles
Summary: Good OmensNeverwhere crossover. Richard Mayhew wanders off by himself one night after the quest for the key and bumps into two friends who apparently knew the angel Islington. Implied CrowleyxAziraphale.


A Good Omens/Neverwhere crossover

**Disclaimer:** Much as I want to say I own 'em, all things pertaining to Good Omens and Neverwhere belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. wistful sigh Oh, Crowley . . .

**Timeline:** Post-book (for both)

**Summary:** Richard wanders off by himself one night and bumps into two friends who apparently knew the angel Islington.

**Warnings:** implied Crowley/Azirphale (they're practically canon!), mild language

Richard had no idea why things like these kept happening to him. First, his perfectly comfortable, albeit perfectly _boring_, life in London Above was wrenched away from him just because he did a good deed. Then, he'd been tossed into a quest – with very little warning, mind you – after (of all things) an angel. On said quest, he'd been double-crossed (two or three times, at the very least), stabbed, beaten up, and gods-know-what-else'd. After all that, the only thing he got for all his trouble was a bloody title that wasn't even remotely useful, and often got him into even more trouble than he usually did. And he didn't care if he was whining. He had every right to whine every once in a while. After all, life just _loved_ to screw him over. And now . . .

"But_ Crowley!_ _Look_ at him! He's . . . he's so _thin_!"

Now, apparently, two very odd men from London Above were squabbling over whether or not they should "bring him home for a spot of tea – he looks like he needs one, poor chap," as the blonde one had insisted upon spotting him wandering around by himself in the park at night, dressed in the newest set of mismatched raggedy clothes Door had procured for him. No wonder they'd mistaken him for a homeless man. At least, he had thought they were from London Above. Now, he wasn't very sure. After all, normal people weren't supposed to be able to see him. And that meant . . .

"Absolutely _not_, angel," the black haired bloke with the shades hissed, throwing a venomous look at Richard. If it weren't for the yellow, almost reptilian eyes that glared at him from behind the sunglasses, Richard would've been quite amused by the flash of jealousy he'd glimpsed in those otherworldly eyes. As it was, he was quite understandably nervous. "We are _not_ bringing the hu – uh, _him_ home with us. And I don't bloody well care if he's thin or not!"

"I'm right here, you know," Richard pointed out before the blonde had a chance to respond. _All I wanted was some time for myself, _he mourned silently. Out loud, he asked, "And, er, this is going to sound rather odd, but you can see me, yes?"

The duo stared at him. "Damn right, that's a stupid question," the brunette – Crowley, his mind supplied helpfully – grumbled, even as the blonde replied with a cheery, but bemused, "Of course we can, dear fellow!"

"Right. Now, _how_ is it possible that you can see me?"

Crowley shot him a look that Richard thought would not look at all misplaced on the marquis' face. "There's such a thing called eyes, and – ouch! What the hell was that for, angel?!"

The blonde and Richard both ignored him, turning to each other instead.

Apparently, that was not a good thing to do. Crowley became even more upset by this and growled, causing Richard to glance at him warily. As soon as he did, though, he immediately regretted it. Looking at the incensed Crowley, Richard saw an image of, of _something_ overlapped over the brunette. That something was large, black, and something his subconscious immediately knew to be much, _much_ more dangerous than anything – well, the small part of his brain that managed to remember Islington conceded, maybe not _everything_ – he'd encountered in London Below. Especially if it was as jealous as it appeared to be at the moment. A moment later, and the overlapping image disappeared as Crowley apparently managed to get himself under control. Even then, Richard, warrior of London Below or not, was left very rattled.

Now, contrary to popular belief – or the marquis' belief, if you wanted to be specific – Richard actually did have self-preservation instincts. They were just usually vetoed by Richard's apparent concern for all of mankind and then some. Now, however, his self-preservation instincts kicked into gear, and Richard decided to change the subjects in hopes of directing Crowley's wrath in a different direction.

"Are you really an angel?" Richard blurted out before his mind caught up with his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to know someone named Islington, would you?" Then, realizing what he'd just said, he tried to backtrack, only to be stopped by the pain in the blonde's suddenly quiet voice as he answered.

"Actually, yes, I am an angel. My name is Aziraphale," the blonde told him almost hesitantly. "And, and as a matter of fact, I do know Islington. Or, at least, I thought I did." A brief flash of pain showed itself on the angel's face before it quickly vanished. He glanced at the shell-shocked Richard, and smiled a bit at his expression. "I take it you're from London Below then?" At the mortal's nod, he continued. "Well, that explains it. If you truly want to know how I knew him, well, it's a long story, but if you've the time – "

"I do," Richard answered quickly, mentally wincing at the scolding Door would surely give him for disappearing for so long.

"Hang on, how do _you_ know about Islington?" Crowley asked Richard suspiciously. "Only the Black Friars are supposed to know about him."

Richard squirmed under the weight of Crowley's reptilian eyes. "Er, well, there was this key, and – "

"You didn't _free_ the bastard, did you?!"

"No, I, er, well . . . Kind of? But it's all right now. My friend Door, she – "

"Dear boy, that's enough." The weary tone in Aziraphale's voice stopped both of them.

Aziraphale turned to his now silent companion and murmured something Richard didn't catch to him. Whatever it was that was said, Crowley obviously didn't like it, and he stalked off in the direction of the park's only lake, mumbling something about tormenting ducks under his breath.

Richard watched him leave for a second before asking hesitantly, "Is he - ?"

"Who? Crowley? Ah, no, he's a demon, not an angel. Don't worry, he's actually a sweet fellow –"

"I can still hear you, you know!" came the indignant yell from the direction of the lake, disturbing many of the sleeping birds roosting in the trees.

The blonde gave a very un-angelic snort, and retorted, "Then perhaps you shouldn't eavesdrop, hmm? Then perhaps you wouldn't hear things that apparently offend you."

There was no reply.

It was then that Richard realized that the two must probably spend quite a bit of time together, if Crowley was rubbing off on Aziraphale as much as he seemed to be.

"I don't know whether to be relieved that we haven't heard any sounds indicating that he's torturing ducks or not . . ." Richard heard Aziraphale mumble to himself as he glanced in the direction Crowley stalked off. The angel turned back to Richard. "Anyway, as I was saying . . . Er. What were we talking about again?" the blonde asked, once more looking bemused. Richard found the look on the angel's face to be rather endearing. No wonder Crowley kept him around, even if they were supposed to be mortal enemies . . .

"The angel Islington."

"Ah. Yes. Well, you'd better make yourself comfortable, my dear." Aziraphale gestured to the two comfortably squashy-looking armchairs with plaid upholstery that Richard knew would never be found in the house of anyone with taste (one of the things he'd picked up from his time with Jessica), much less in the middle of a public park.

Regardless of that, Richard obeyed as the angel settled himself in the opposite seat.

"Tea?" Aziraphale offered, holding out a chipped china cup full of the steaming liquid.

"Oh, um, thanks."

"Ah, don't mention it."

They spent the next few minutes in silence, savoring the surprisingly good tea before Aziraphale cleared his throat. There was a look on his face that Richard felt was not one usually seen on the angel's affable face. It was thoughtful look, one tinged with the sadness of one who'd only wanted to help but just ended up making things worse.

"Well, a long, long time ago . . ."

**_fin_**

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**Kaze's notes:**

Well, that's over and done with. Not quite beta'd, but it will have to do. Comments and _constructive _criticism is much obliged. The title actually refers to Aziraphale's last line, which I wanted to seem like a line from a fairy tale.

Andabout the ending, it's meant to be open-ended. It's just so much more fun for everyone that way.

Anyways, cheers all!


End file.
